It's Just a Number
by alynwa
Summary: Illya has a good laugh because of a misconception the women of UNCLE have about Napoleon.


It's Just a Number

Illya walked into the office he shared with Napoleon holding two cups of coffee "fresh" from the commissary. As he was paying for it, he had wondered, for the umpteenth time, how the people who worked behind the counter could call this swill fresh and manage to keep a straight face. What is the American slang for this? Oh yes, _battery acid._

Napoleon was at his desk, as Illya expected but, instead of working on the pile of agents' reports in front of him, he was sitting with his chin cradled in his hand. Illya noted that his bottom lip seemed to be sticking out. The Russian placed a cup on his partner's desk and when Napoleon looked up, Illya saw the lip was definitely poking out. "Napoleon, why in the world are you sitting here pouting? Has The Old Man rejected your latest expense report?"

The brunet man took a sip of the brew and sighed heavily. "My latest expense report is fine; yours is overdue. And, for the record, I am _not _pouting. I am, however, trying to think of a plan to counteract some false Intel about me that I recently discovered is making the rounds of the female support staff."

Illya sat at his desk, reached into a drawer, pulled out an E – 429 Expense Report form and inserted it into his typewriter. "I intend to submit my report today. What is this misinformation about you and how did you find out about it?"

Napoleon stood up and shoved his hands into his pockets. He walked to the file cabinets and leaned against one and stared at his partner. "Apparently, a lot of the women of UNCLE are under the impression that I am older than you are."

Illya snorted, "Napoleon, you _are _older than I am! What are you _talking_ about?"

"I'm _ten months_ older! That's practically the same age when you look at the big picture! Have you noticed that cute little blonde that started in the Secretarial Pool last week?"

"The one who was sitting with Miss Rogers in the commissary yesterday at lunchtime? Yes, I believe her name is Rhonda. Why?"

Napoleon removed his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms. "Well, ah, I asked her out to dinner and she looked at me and said, 'No offense, Mr. Solo but, I don't have Daddy issues, so no, thank you.' That was bad enough but, then she added, 'Could you tell me if Mr. Kuryakin is seeing anyone? I would love to go out with him!' It's not funny, you bratty Russian!"

The aforementioned "bratty Russian" had started smirking at the beginning of Napoleon's recounting of his encounter with Rhonda and burst out laughing by the end of it. "I'm sorry," he gasped out, though nothing about his demeanor said that he was, "How much older does she think you are?"

Napoleon's swarthy complexion took on a reddish tint. "Ah, that's the thing," he answered. "I asked her and she's heard that I'm anywhere from two years older than you to twelve! She thinks I'm ten years old…_Hey!_"

Illya was laughing so hard, he had slipped out of his chair onto the floor. Tears were streaming down his face and he was clutching his sides. He managed to crawl over to the couch and pull himself up on it. "Oh! Oh, my sides hurt! Stop!" he managed before collapsing into a fit of giggles.

Napoleon harrumphed and walked stiffly back to his desk and sat down. He picked up April Dancer and Mark Slate's report on their last affair and began to read it to see if he could find his dignity in there. He glanced over the top of the folder and saw that his partner had gotten himself back under control and had returned to his seat to begin typing his expense report. Napoleon drank his now lukewarm coffee and steadfastly ignored his, for lack of a better term, best friend.

Meanwhile, thinking perhaps he might have gone too far, Illya decided to give his partner some advice. "Napoleon, the women might not think you're so much older than I am if you would stop calling me a brat. You _make _yourself sound older. You might as well call me a…What is the word? Whippersnapper? What exactly _is _a whippersnapper, anyway?"

Napoleon grunted, "Never mind."

"Napoleon, come on! You know you're a man that young women find attractive! What is that saying? You're only as old as the women you feel? So, you should feel what? Twenty – eight?"

The brunet slammed the folder down. "I _am _twenty – eight!" he replied indignantly.

Illya's mouth quirked into a smile. "I know that," he said, "too bad the ladies don't."

"I'll tell you what, Napoleon. I will not ask Rhonda out on a date. She has insulted you so I will not deign to spend any time with her. I'm your partner! We'll stick together. Would that make you feel a little better?"

Napoleon said, "Illya, you don't have to do that. My ego isn't that delicate."

"Good, because she and I are going to the movies tonight." The Russian ducked as the folder Napoleon had been holding came flying at him. "I thought your ego was intact!"

"It is," Napoleon replied, "or I wouldn't have said it didn't matter. It's not either of our faults that, as much as I hate to admit it, you do look younger than I do but, it's not like I'm walking around with a cane either. Luckily for us, Partner Mine, we usually attract distinctly different types of women so, if Rhonda prefers the long – haired, hippie look of you to the urbane, sophisticated look of myself, well, ah, what can I say?"

Illya smiled and replied, "That is why we are good partners; we stay out of each other's way at the right time and we come together at the right time. For that, I am grateful."

Napoleon tried to look completely serious but, couldn't help the slight grin that remained on his face. "Listen, Mr. Grateful, quit being mushy, do your report and let me read mine."

Napoleon watched as his partner obediently began to type up his expense account. He smiled at the top of the head of the man he loved like a baby brother and thought, _Maybe that's why women think I'm so much older; they sense my "big brother" vibe when Illya and I are together. _He sighed silently. _I can live with that._


End file.
